Long Story Short
by Anniehow
Summary: First he'll find Dean. Then he'll deal with the rest. A coda for 4.22, Castiel POV


SPOILERS: For the Season 4 finale

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Two fics + one vid + a bunch of plot!bunnies hopping around in one single week? Holy fannish splurge Batman! This means one thing, and one thing only: I should start studying for my final exams, so my brain is cleverly getting started on creative procrastination *headpalm* As always, concrit most welcome :-D

Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by it's creator Kripke and the CW network, and I am in no way affiliated with them.

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The dusty road stretched out in front of him, going on and on and on. Humans would describe it as seemingly endless, but his eyes weren't hampered by air, or humidity, or even the gentle curve of the earth; he could see beyond, and he could see besides all that. Still, it was a pretty long walk, even for him.

A sigh would be appropriate here. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, dropping his shoulders, trying out the movements on his borrowed body. They... fit.

He kept his pace unhurried but determined, knowing that eventually he would reach his destination, and knowing that he would be too late anyway. Even if he could still fly and reach Dean in the span of a human heartbeat, he'd be too late. That didn't deter him from his purpose, or make his will falter, but it did give him a sense of hopeless peace. His mouth quirked in a grin of its own accord, surprising himself. This was an instance where he could understand why one would choose pain over peace.

He looked up at the pale sun, a gauzy sky scattering and reflecting light over all creation. The warmth had dried the blood on his back, making the fabric of his shirt and jacket stiff and uncomfortable. He had never really noticed the clothes before, but now his human senses were sharper, more defined, and he was starting to discover things. Most of them were unpleasant, but nonetheless he couldn't deny his fascination. He might even tell Dean about it, once he'd reached him.

He cast his real senses far, scoping the terrain all around him. No humans, no demons, no angels. Just animals and plants. He knew this to be best, at least because he couldn't seem to will the stains out of his coat and he knew this would pose a problem in interacting with ordinary humans, but he still found himself wishing for company. This sense of loneliness, of being cut off from his Brothers and Sisters was another new, alien discovery, even more unpleasant than the rest and yet still as fascinating. He tried another sigh. He was starting to grow tired.

Out of no where, he thought of the prophet Chuck. He wondered if he knew what was happening. He wondered how long his kin were going to keep him now that they had taken him. Probably as long as they deemed him useful, and now that the war was starting... at least there was no question of Chuck's physical safety. Somehow this didn't reassure him and he worried, a little, even if it was pointless and distracting, and unbecoming of a good soldier. He imagined what Dean would say, probably "_screw being a good soldier!"_ or something equally blasphemous and equally, deliciously, rebellious.

He tripped on a stone and had to waste a few unsteady steps just to regain his proper balance. Walking wasn't a good alternative to flying, but at the moment it was all he had, so he'd have to make do. He'd probably be able to fly again pretty soon. He'd just have to wait for his wings to grow back. He shivered, violently, a shudder that shook his entire body, rattling his teeth like a bad landing after a powerful blow in battle.

The archangel hadn't wasted time with him: it was all over very quickly and efficiently. He wasn't sure whether this meant that they weren't interested in killing him outright, or if the breaking of the final seal had simply delayed his execution. Maybe both. Maybe they thought that after his second punishment he'd repent again and rejoin the ranks. In that case his wings should grow back. It was just a pair of limbs, taken in battle. Once, what humans would call a long, long time ago, one of his hands had been cut off in a fight, and it had grown back. He was in his true form then, but wings weren't part of the human body, even if it had bled after the archangel had removed them. There was a good chance they'd grow back. Meanwhile he couldn't fly, but he wasn't incapacitated. And while he waited, he might as well try and reach Dean.

He knew for a fact that Uriel had fought more than once with both wings broken, one nearly torn in half, and they had mended without fail. He wondered what Uriel would have said of this situation. Probably nothing helpful. Uriel was a great warrior and a formidable companion to have at his side in any battle, but as the humans say, his bedside manner sucked out loud. He smirked again. He'd gladly take any and all unhelpful words if it meant having a helpful hand right about now.

Another shudder shook his body, making the stiff cloth scrape his back. He tried willing the stains away for the umpteenth time, but it didn't work. He decided to take this as a good sign, as part of his punishment, something to reflect on, to help him ponder the error of his ways. If they wanted him to do that, surely they wanted him to try and redeem, and for that he'd need his wings back.

The archangel hadn't used any blade, or cast any spell while he ripped them off, so it had to be a simple battle injury, and those he'd always shrugged off. He'd healed, and kept on fighting. Or he'd kept on fighting, and then healed. Either way, he was going to go on.

He was going to find Dean. Then he'd deal with the rest.


End file.
